221BeaverDam
by Voltorph
Summary: John the hedgehog and Sherlock the otter find a nice abandoned beaver dam to make into their home.
1. Chapter 1

John sat on the bank, his back legs sinking slowly into the mud. Irritated, he shifted his rump to a drier patch of grass and gazed out across the water to where Sherlock sat perched on a partially exposed log.

"Are you finished yet?"

"Almost," He slapped his ottery tail on the log and skittered across it, sniffing the abandoned beaver dam, "It'll need some furnishings. Perhaps a nice rug that we can curl up on."

"Can I see?" John was becoming uncomfortable, his light brown spines rising marginally, lifting his striped jumper. Sherlock rolled into the water on his back and drifted lazily over to where John sat, using his tail as a rudder.

"Well get on, then."

"On your belly?"

"Of course, how else would I ferry you over there?"

Reluctantly, John pawed the soft fur of Sherlock's stomach and crawled on, wobbling slightly as he tried to steady himself. With one strong push, Sherlock sailed like a furry boat over to the dam. John scrambled off his belly and onto the configuration of sticks, sniffing it curiously.

"Oh this could be quite nice," He exclaimed, nosing into the interior of the dam.

"Yes, I think so," Sherlock slithered in after him and inspected the perimeter of the room before curling up in the center. John sauntered over and nestled himself beside Sherlock, taking care not to prod him with his quills.

"I think a quick nap won't hurt," He yawned and stretched his paws out in front of him, burying his nose into Sherlock's damp fur. Silence stretched out for a moment before John raised his head and found that the otter beside him was already fast asleep, his whiskers quivering as he exhaled deeply. John huffed in amusement and closed his eyes, imagining what kind of moss he should collect for a suitable rug later on in the day.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was already fading; vibrant hues of orange and red spreading like watercolor across the dusky canopy above. Mycroft shifted on the high limb, clenching and unclenching his talons as he focused his luminous eyes on the softly glowing dam far below. Rustling his glossy speckled feathers in amusement, he dipped his head slightly and hooted softly into the dark. Anthea, a moon-faced barn owl, alighted gracefully on the branch next to Mycroft.

"You called?" She queried, preening her golden wings idly.

"I did indeed." Mycroft narrowed his round blue eyes and clicked his beak,

"What do you see, over there-no, down there, in the dam."

Anthea swiveled her head in the direction Mycroft was indicating.

"A little brown hedgehog in a striped jumper—that's rather odd, isn't it?"

"It seems our dear Sherlock has made a friend."

"What then—increase surveillance?"

"I think that's in order."

Raising himself to his full height, Mycroft acknowledged Anthea with a nod of his head and then took off into the darkening sky.

When John awoke, Sherlock was staring down at him curiously, his head balanced on his folded paws.

"You snuffle when you're asleep," He noted, licking the downy fur on John's nose.

"So do you," the hedgehog batted Sherlock's tongue away and got to his feet, arching his back leisurely, "Where'd you get these?"

The entire inside of the dam was ringed with small bell jars full of what looked like winking stars.

"Fireflies," Sherlock explained, his tail thumping against the wood floor, looking extremely pleased with himself, "I thought you might like them."

"Er—thank you Sherlock."

John waddled over and licked him affectionately, ruffling the russet fur on the top of his head.

"Mycroft's been watching us," Sherlock sighed, letting his head drop back onto his paws, "I expect he'll want to meet you."

"And Mycroft is—."

"You know that Great Horned owl that sits in the oak tree by Applegate Lane?"

"Oh—oh my."

"Yes, well. He won't be getting to you, I can ensure that." Sherlock pulled John close and nipped lightly at his quills.

"I wish you'd stop doing that. My back isn't a fancy array of toothpicks, you know."

Sherlock chuckled and yawned widely, buffeting John with a torrent of hot breath. A delicate scurrying from above interrupted the peaceful silence, and the two looked around for the source. Timid as ever, Molly edged through a crack in the sticks, her slender whiskers quivering with nervous excitement.

"There's been a murder!" She squeaked, eyes flitting between the pair of them, "Lestrade wants you there as quickly as possible!"

"Details?" Sherlock leapt to his feet and began pacing.

"It was one of the—" Molly faltered for a moment, running her tiny paws through her mousey fur, "—it was one of the _hounds."_


	3. Chapter 3

John's peppercorn eyes widened, and he glanced fearfully at Sherlock, who had suddenly stopped pacing.

"A hound?"

"Yes, one of the ones from Baskerville. Oh—Sherlock you ought to come quickly," Molly squeaked, beckoning towards the rudimentary door of the beaver dam. Sherlock nudged John outside with his nose, where he sat quivering by the lapping water of the pond.

"Quickly! Quickly!"

Molly scrambled across a net of tangled roots and branches and came to a stop on the opposite bank, waving them on frantically.

"You're not going to like this—"

"Not going to like wh—argh!"

Sherlock had lifted John up by his striped jumper and started across the same path as Molly. John dangled irritably from Sherlock's mouth, his stubby limbs suspended in a two-armed salute. As Sherlock loped after Molly in the tall, marshy grass, Anthea stirred far above in the tree overlooking the dam. She raised her head and hooted urgently into the dark woods behind her before swooping low over the sprinting procession.

"Where do you think you're going?" Anthea called, soaring just feet above them. As Sherlock's mouth was being occupied at the moment, John answered for him.

"Cr—crime scene!" He spluttered, a bit dizzy. Sherlock increased his pace as Molly skirted around the edge of the pond and raced down the curving lane towards Applegate. Anthea clicked her beak in annoyance and tailed them closely. Far off in the distance, they glimpsed the silhouette of Lestrade as he sniffed at a lumpy form on the ground. As they drew nearer, Sherlock could see the body of a young rabbit sprawled out on the dirt path. Lestrade looked up as they approached and sat back on his shaggy black haunches.

Sherlock set John gently down on the ground and padded silently around the body, sniffing occasionally. Lestrade eyed John curiously, his head cocking to one side. A silver tag was attached to the border collie's collar of sturdy leather, flashing as it caught the moonlight.

"You're a police dog, then?" John tried, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"Something like that, yes." Lestrade raised his rear leg and scratched the back of his floppy ear.

"Quiet, you two. I'm trying to think." Sherlock was leaning over the rabbit, a paw suspended over its neck, which was dotted with bite-marks. Molly paused in her examination and cast a furtive look up at Anthea, who was perched on a fence nearby.

"These wounds are fresh, and small. Roundish, so-teeth, obviously. More specifically, _canine teeth. _The cervical vertebra is broken, as well as several ribs. If we're assuming this _was _a hound of some sort, it would have braced its paw on her stomach and bitten down on the neck once she was pinned to the ground." Sherlock moved now to the dirt surrounding the rabbit and squinted at the faint scuff-marks in the earth.

"There's something odd about it—however," He observed, glancing up at John, "It looks as if the attacker shied away after the kill—as if he was ashamed of the very act. Now why would a cold-blooded Baskerville hound feel remorse—?"

"It doesn't really matter though, does it?" Lestrade interrupted, stooping to inspect the footprints, "The killer is out there right now! He's a threat to Applegate and everyone who lives here!"

Sebastian crouched low to the ground, his brown eyes downcast as he chewed desperately on a birch branch. No matter how hard he tried, Sebastian couldn't quite get the taste of the rabbit's blood off his tongue. Disgusted, he shook his head and spat into the brush. The soft ground of the hollow squished underneath his paws as he turned on the spot and lay down. Sebastian would wait. Patiently. His creator would come soon and console him for the terrible deed he committed. For now, though, the hound licked his teeth and whimpered quietly into the black forest.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was pacing again, his eyes and muzzle scrunched up in thought. John hung back with Lestrade, who was steadily digging a hole big enough to bury the body of the young rabbit. Anthea regarded the whole event dolefully from her perch on the fence, as always accompanied by Mycroft, who was eyeing John suspiciously.

"We need to find this hound before it gets too far." Sherlock muttered, half to himself.

"There _are_ footprints," Lestrade pointed out, pausing in his frenzied digging.

"Yes but we have no idea where they lead. This is a pointless kill. I can't rattle up a _single _motive—which means that this is either an impulsive murder, or a trap."

"What, you think the hound is trying to get us to _follow_ its footprints?" John asked, cocking his head to the side. Sherlock cast him an approving look and nodded. "Precisely."

"Why, though?" The notion struck John as quite odd. Why would a killer want to arrange a meeting with people who are bound to arrest them?

"I haven't the faintest." Sherlock grinned, his whiskers twitching excitedly. He turned to John, suddenly serious.

"John, I'll have Mycroft escort you back to the dam. You'll be safer there."

"Wh—no! I want to come with you!" John waddled up close to him and gave a reproachful glance up at the stoic Mycroft . Sherlock tried to keep his expression impassive, but a flicker of affection crossed it as he looked down at John.

"John—I understand your concern but—"

"I'm not helpless!" John cut him off, exasperated, "I may be small but I do _have _defense mechanisms of my own."

As if to demonstrate, John's quills rose threateningly, making him look like an overly-full pin cushion. Letting out a huff of amusement, Sherlock dipped his head to inspect his spiny comrade, only to receive a relatively sharp poke in the nose.

"Alright, alright I see your point." Sherlock clutched at his nose as it smarted with pain.

Lestrade lifted the rabbit up with one paw and set her down gently in the makeshift grave. He then pushed the dirt back over the grave, his voice sombre. "Right, well- Sherlock, John, you come with me. The sooner we catch this hound, the better."

Sherlock dipped his head to pick up John by his striped jumper once more. Reluctantly, John allowed him to, avoiding Lestrade's eyes. Mycroft clicked his beak, whispering something to Anthea before taking off with a flurry of sleek black feathers. Stooping low to the ground, Lestrade sniffed the earth around the footprints. As he picked up the scent, he started off through the tall grass lining the path, tail tucked between his legs.

Sebastian was just beginning to drift off to sleep when he heard it. The grass surrounding the hollow waved forebodingly around him, providing a constant cacophony of nearly-inaudible crackles and pops from the underbrush. Shaking his head, Sebastian closed his eyes once more, huffing out an exasperated breath. There it was again, the rustling louder now, as if someone was skirting around the perimeter of the hollow. This time, Sebastian rose to his feet, teeth bared.

"You wouldn't bite me, would you Seb?" came a sing-song voice to his right, "That would be very unfortunate for the both of us."

Moriarty strode into view, his angular face highlighted by a sliver of moonlight cutting through the canopy above.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Sebastian dropped back onto his haunches, assuming his version of a military stature.

"No matter." Moriarty flicked his tail from side to side, his yellow eyes glowing in the dark. "Was the deed carried out sufficiently?"

Sebastian hesitated, running his tongue over his teeth, tasting the irony residue there.

"I miscalculated, Sir. I thought I had him—the otter—but—"

Moriarty hissed softly, cutting Sebastian off.

"You had one assignment, my dear," He whispered, lamp-like eyes flashing dangerously, "And you couldn't follow through. Oh dear, Sebastian."

"You created me for one purpose, didn't you?" Sebastian spat, suddenly bitter, "You made me a monster. I don't _want _to kill anyone, Jim!"

"If I remember correctly—you volunteered for the experiment. You were fully aware of the job I was asking you to perform."

Jim circled Sebastian slowly, his tail twitching back and forth, ears pinned to his angular feline head.

"You will do as I say," Jim hissed, "And you will run."

Sebastian hesitated, kneading his front paws into the soft earth of the hollow.

"I'm trying to protect you," Jim mewled, his disposition shifting dramatically, "Please—just do as I say and run. They're coming, Seb."

Giving in, Sebastian stood and trotted away reluctantly, glancing over his shoulder at the lone cat in the center of the clearing.


End file.
